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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528347">No battle won</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes'>Alexander_Writes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Concerning An Important Conversation [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, First war against Mevolent, Gen, Hopeless POV, Hopeless magic reveal, If communication occurred between the Dead Men, Nonbinary Character, Oneshot, all feedback welcome, possible mental health tw, they/them pronouns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:14:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You weren’t changing shape,” Shudder says, voice a quiet questioning rumble. “Not when you were fighting with me.”<br/>“They did,” Ghastly says sharply. Hopeless looks at him. “They did change shape.”<br/>“Not for long.”<br/>“You turned into my mother,” Ghastly says.<br/>Hopeless shuts their eyes. </p><p>Hopeless almost dies fighting on the battlefield, and Erskine and Larrikin hold an intervention. Hopeless explains their powers.</p><p>Set after A Veritable Mountain of Trees and before A Mutual Dislike of Winter</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hopeless (Skulduggery Pleasant) &amp; Erskine Ravel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Concerning An Important Conversation [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666825</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No battle won</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hopeless feels no sense of victory when the allies finally succeed. They had fought hours to push the enemy back, until the ground was churned to mud and their limbs weary and hearts empty. Now, seeing the last of Serpine’s forces teleport away, Hopeless sinks to the ground. Their knees are already filthy anyway. It doesn’t matter. Fears thrum around them. They let their head droop, close their eyes. Their sword falls. Ghastly, standing on the other side of the battlefield, watches but does not approach. Hopeless does not look at him.</p><p>Though they cannot now see it, they are on a mountain pass. Below them winds a European landscape – the borders have changed so swiftly in the last years that Hopeless does not actually know which nation they are in. The view is, objectively, beautiful. Rivers and forests spread out below and down the slopes, vibrant even from so far away. Above them the mountain continues, and at the top it is icy, but they are not high enough for the cold weather to touch them.</p><p>Nearby, a man realises that he is dying. He is bleeding out from a stomach wound. The terror of his last moments consumes Hopeless until Hopeless is breathing with him, until Hopeless’ heart is tripping and racing too. Worse, even, than the man’s last fears is the feeling of emptiness that he leaves behind him.</p><p>“Hopeless, Hopeless look at me.”</p><p>Someone is holding their shoulders. The voice is Irish, frantic, distant. Hopeless feels hands move to their waist, and is lifted up to their feet. They sway, eyes firmly shut.</p><p>“Hopeless, please.”</p><p>It’s Erskine; Hopeless knows those fears. They force their eyes open. Ravel is staring at them wildly. There’s blood on his face, in his hair. A knife had slashed his face, but the wound has stopped bleeding already. Hopeless, vaguely delirious, puts a hand to Erskine’s cheek, and for a moment Erskine looks as if he is about to cry. Erskine, Hopeless realises, had been terrified they were dead.</p><p>“Thank god,” he says, pulling Hopeless’ arm over his shoulder. “Are you injured? Talk to me, please.”</p><p>“No,” Hopeless murmurs. “No, I’m not.”</p><p>Erskine returns Hopeless’ sword to them, and Hopeless grips it tightly, and then Erskine walks them through the muck towards Larrikin. Other soldiers have to find their way to the healing tent if they are able, but it is always easiest for the Dead Men to go to Larrikin instead.</p><p>Hopeless is so tired, but the determination not to scare Erskine further makes them focus. Around them are the indifferent results of war. Bodies lie where they have fallen, and some of them still move. People are sobbing, screaming, others concerningly silent. Hopeless can barely think over the wash of horror that coats everything around them. It is the curse of their discipline. Everything is covered with grey dread, so thick Hopeless can taste it.</p><p>Larrikin is crouching above a young woman, and Hopeless knows before looking that even Larrikin’s powers won’t save her. He doesn’t look at the two of them as he murmurs comforting things to her, even as he wastes precious magic trying to heal her injuries. Hopeless does not know if the woman had fought with or against them, and it does not matter. Erskine is silent, breathing shallowly.</p><p>Hopeless feels the woman slip away and darkness seems to rise, even as Larrikin and Erskine start to talk loudly. The world twists a little, and Hopeless is now on their side, having escaped Erskine’s exhausted support. They do the best they can to not start screaming.</p><p>“We need to get them out of here, now,” Saracen says urgently. When did he arrive? “Erskine, can you help carry them?”</p><p>“Of course,” Erskine says, voice stronger than before, and Hopeless is being lifted again.</p><p>They never lose consciousness entirely, but the world becomes fuzzy around them for a while, and by the time they are functioning again they are being propped against an oak tree and someone is making a fire. They must have walked down the mountain, down to the forest, away from camp.</p><p>“Are you sure they’re not injured? Nothing hit their head?”</p><p>Larrikin’s voice is wry. “I have been a healer for two centuries. Yes, Erskine, I am sure.”</p><p>The fire truly starts. Hopeless feels the heat on their face, can hear the crackle of burning twigs.</p><p>“So you have no idea what happened to Hopeless?”</p><p>Larrikin’s voice is hesitant. “The only thing I can compare this to is when Sensitives use too much of their powers – especially when their powers are psychological in some way.”</p><p>“Hopeless has said they’re not a Sensitive.”</p><p>“Have they said what they are, though?” Larrikin asks sharply, then sighs. “If I hadn’t seen them live through centuries, I’d wonder if they were mortal.”</p><p>“Apart from the shapeshifting.” Erskine says, amusedly.</p><p>“You know what I mean.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I do.”</p><p>Hopeless opens their eyes slowly. “Where’s Saracen?”</p><p>Erskine turns and kneels beside Hopeless, hands bunched on the knees of his breeches. “He went to tell the others where we are. We thought you needed to be out of camp. Were we right?”</p><p>“You were,” Hopeless says.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” Larrikin asks, and he leans forward to place a gentle hand on Hopeless’ forehead. There’s a pot over the fire, bubbling irregularly.</p><p>“Better, now.” Hopeless says.</p><p>“All right,” Larrikin says, after a moment. “Good. The rest are going to be here soon. And then we all need to talk.”</p><p>“Why?” Hopeless asks, nauseous.</p><p>Larrikin looks at Erskine, Erskine looks up into the canopy. Larrikin’s eyes are bereft of humour when he looks back at Hopeless.</p><p>“Because you’re going to tell us what your discipline is.”</p><p>The moment is shocking, though it shouldn’t have been, not really. Hopeless had known this would happen sometime, and it has been centuries. Hopeless pulls away from Larrikin’s touch.</p><p> “Hopeless, if your magic is endangering you, we need to know what it is. We can’t account for it otherwise, and we won’t be able to help.” Larrikin says.</p><p>“Erskine.” Hopeless says, quiet, imploring.</p><p>“If we don’t know how to manage this you’re going to get yourself killed.” Erskine’s tone is firm; that of a commander’s or soldier’s instead of a concerned friend. His face tells a different story.</p><p>Hopeless lowers their eyes. They feel heavy with exhaustion, tight with panic. Their thoughts are galloping and Hopeless cannot hold onto them enough to make an excuse, a reason, anything that will keep their secret and comfort their friends. The twilit night hangs about them, and Hopeless feels the ground roll under them a little. This is an expected side effect of using their magic so much in so little time. Hopeless won’t be able to fight for several days at least. Perhaps they won’t even be able to work.</p><p>Erskine and Larrikin are right. In any case, this secret may not be concealable any further. Ghastly is a wild card. His face had spoken of horror and hurt the last time they had looked at each other, nothing more. Hopeless does not know what he will do.</p><p>“All right,” Hopeless says, and their chest tightens.</p><p>The two men look surprised for a moment, then Larrikin’s seriousness dissipates and Erskine relaxes.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Larrikin says after a moment. “We wouldn’t push it, but this has been an issue for a while, hasn’t it?”</p><p>Hopeless nods, voiceless. When Erskine leans towards them they flinch away, and Hopeless doesn’t need to be touching the man to feel the leap of worry that their rejection evokes. Even so, Hopeless doesn’t try to sooth their friend’s hurt feelings, not this time.</p><p>The others arrive soon enough. Ghastly trails behind, with Skulduggery. The others are weary but bright-eyed; they all have won a significant victory today. Not in that they pushed the enemy out of … whichever nation they are now in. Rather, they have served as a successful distraction, focusing the brunt of Mevolent’s forces here, allowing mages and a number of mortals to evacuate to allied territory. They’ve saved many lives today, and it’s not something they can say often enough. Hopeless knows instinctively that Ghastly has not spoken about what happened on the battlefield, not to anyone. He has that tight look to his face, the one that says he has something to say but is refusing to say it.</p><p>“Hey, Hopeless, how are you?” Dexter asks with an easy smile, and Hopeless smiles weakly back. Thank the Faceless for Dexter Vex, for his bright smiles and swift kindnesses.</p><p>“I’m better,” Hopeless says, and waits until the others settle around the fire. Ghastly keeps looking at Hopeless and then away again, hands clenched together. Skulduggery stands, firelight sparking over his exposed skull, and Hopeless wonders if he knows already. Saracen knows, but that’s because it’s Saracen.</p><p>Larrikin walks around the fire, passing out bowls of stew. He’s himself again, bouncing and smiling, soft touches on people’s hands or casual half hugs. But slowly everyone focuses on Hopeless. It turns the moment real, in a way it wasn’t before, and everything feels anxious and precise and cold but inescapable.</p><p>The wind pushes Hopeless’ hair into their eyes, and they find themselves rubbing their right palm, tracing the ancient scar there. They peer up from behind their fringe.</p><p>“What happened during the battle?” Skulduggery asks smoothly. He is looking at Ghastly and Hopeless, glancing between them.</p><p>“I overused my powers,” Hopeless says. “Haven’t done that since I was, maybe, a hundred? Not like this anyway. I was trying, well …”</p><p>They had been trying to reassure those around them, and to scare the enemy into taking the wrong move, retreating before retreat was necessary. The battle had felt weighed against them, so Hopeless had fought and had used their powers and had divided themselves into too many different pieces. And everyone’s fears had weighed so heavily that at times Hopeless could barely force themselves to keep standing. It is a miracle, Hopeless thinks, that they are even still alive.</p><p>“I was trying to stop Serpine from winning. I overextended myself.”</p><p>The others don’t seem particularly concerned; it’s not too worrying of a statement to make. They have all used their powers too much in some mission or another. Hopeless looks down at their own twisting hands. They have dirt under their nails, they should clean them soon.</p><p>“You weren’t changing shape,” Shudder says, voice a quiet questioning rumble. “Not when you were fighting with me.”</p><p>“They did,” Ghastly says sharply. Hopeless looks at him. “They did change shape.”</p><p>“Not for long.”</p><p>“You turned into my mother,” Ghastly says.</p><p>The other Dead Men straighten, and stare. Hopeless shuts their eyes. Ghastly’s mother was killed by Lord Vile five years ago. Hopeless had been there. Ciara had been a decent woman, a great General. Hopeless had liked her very much. They feel ill, deep within themselves, with a weight of guilt too ingrained to remove or extract. It is difficult to speak, as if their jaw is locked in place. Somehow or another, they are shaking.</p><p>“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”</p><p>“Why did you do that? You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”</p><p>Ghastly isn’t angry. He’s hurt, which feels like a harsher blow, somehow. Hopeless isn’t crying, but that’s because they’ve long had practise in hiding their emotions. Erskine places a hand on their shoulder and they lean into it.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to.”</p><p>“Why did you do it?” Ghastly repeats, frustrated. Hopeless feels dread at the idea of dragging this on any further, more dread than at the concept of giving light to the long-hidden truth.</p><p>“I lost control,” Hopeless blurts. “I’m a fear-mage.”</p><p>Erskine retracts his hand. The wind keeps blowing. The others still breath evenly, except for Skulduggery, but when Hopeless looks up they wish they hadn’t. Dexter’s easy smile has left his features. Larrikin is frowning, and Ghastly looks angry now, a little. Anton and Skulduggery are unreadable, but Saracen is concerned, looking at the others. Hopeless doesn’t dare look at Erskine.</p><p>There’s a thread of unease in the air, tied close enough to regular fear that Hopeless feels it on their tongue.</p><p>“I’m disappointed that I didn’t realise,” Skulduggery says. “This puts a great deal of things into perspective.”</p><p>Not an unexpected response, really, from Skulduggery. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this regard; were he to be disgusted in Hopeless’ ‘monstrous’ discipline he would be being a hypocrite, for more reasons than Hopeless can express to the others.</p><p>“How can you be so calm?” Dexter asks Skulduggery. “They’re …”</p><p>He gestures vaguely, and Hopeless thinks of centuries of whispered stories, of rumours and nightmare tales about people with their discipline. Hopeless thinks of their own disgust at their unnatural existence as a youth, of their own refusal to tell others their powers, of years hiding.</p><p>The last peacetime mage-led witch hunt had been in the early 1600s, against werewolves. The second last, however, had been of fear-mages, some younger than Hopeless had been at the time. This thought makes Hopeless push down apologies. They look up, eyes cloud-cold.</p><p>“I’m what, exactly?”</p><p>Dexter pauses. He’s rattled; it takes a moment for him to falsify a smile. “You know what? Ignore me. Tell us what happened with your fearsome fear-mage powers.”</p><p>“I get overwhelmed when too many people around me are scared,” Hopeless says. “And when we were fighting I got bombarded, I suppose. It’s hard to describe the feeling of hearing everyone’s fears. It’s like being in strong sunlight, maybe, or being in the rain. It’s around you and above and everywhere and inescapable. Except it’s cold and thick, and all your anxieties you ever had in your life are being compressed together. Anyway, I lost control of my powers; which is why I changed into Ciara. I’m sorry, Ghastly, I would never have done that otherwise.”</p><p>“So, you’re a fear-mage,” Erskine says slowly. “Is that why Deuce always brings you in for interrogations?”</p><p>Hopeless blinks. “Yes, actually – though he doesn’t know what my discipline is.”</p><p>The Dead Men look at Hopeless warily now. Larrikin looks ill. Whatever had eased in them is gone; this information is, apparently, enough to put them on edge again. Perhaps it is because Hopeless is conforming to the stereotype of people like them; torturers, people who use others’ emotions cruelly.</p><p>Hopeless could explain. They could put all their actions in a light that would be much more palatable to their friends. They know, through something innate inside them, what their friends are afraid of and concerned about, and what they could say to dispel all these fears. But is there a point, really? They may have to explain the specifics of their powers, soon, before Hopeless’ friends’ preconceptions interfere with their ability to work as a team. But Hopeless is tired, and shaky, and deep down they cannot muster the energy to defend their powers, and their life.</p><p>“You torture them? With your powers?” Dexter asks.</p><p>“Sometimes,” Hopeless says. “Other times I reassure them, take their fears away. You’ll be surprised how honest people will be if they aren’t afraid of retribution.”</p><p>“Do you do that with us?” Saracen asks suddenly. “Do you know what I – what we’re afraid of?”</p><p>Hopeless swallows, and lies. “Yes. Except for Skulduggery.”</p><p>“Do you change the way we feel?” Dexter asks.</p><p>“… Sometimes. Yes. If I have to. But I have never made you feel scared.”</p><p>Erskine stands up and walks away. Hopeless wants to follow, but they genuinely cannot stand.</p><p>“What do you mean, if you have to?” Anton asks.</p><p>Hopeless meets his eyes. “If we’re going to die if I do nothing, then I’ll interfere. I don’t make it a habit. I can’t help hearing your fears, though. I can’t turn it off, not really.”</p><p>“I didn’t know that,” Saracen says softly. He snorts. “Fuck. I don’t enjoy being in my head sometimes, I can’t imagine having to be in other people’s.”</p><p>Hopeless nods slowly. “It isn’t the most carefree of disciplines. I wouldn’t have chosen it, you know, if there had been other options.”</p><p>They are all considering what Hopeless has said. Hopeless sees their expressions, their glances to each other. The frisson of unease has faded. Perhaps Erskine is the only one disturbed by this information. Perhaps Erskine is the only one who won’t accept it. This situation is better than anything Hopeless has imagined, and yet it feels bitter. Erskine has been part of Hopeless’ life for a long time. Without him, the future seems cold.</p><p>Hopeless really needs to talk to Ravel, after the others are satisfied.</p><p>“How can we help you when you get overwhelmed?” Larrikin asks. He has a casual hand on Dexter’s wrist, crouching on Dexter’s right-hand side. His green eyes are focused, clear.</p><p>“I don’t think you can,” Hopeless admits. “Nothing seems to help, except distance from other people.”</p><p>“We can do that,” Dexter says, moving his hand to hold Larrikin’s properly.</p><p>Hopeless looks at the others. They all seem quiet, but they’re thinking, not visibly angry or disgusted. Skulduggery has his head tilted just so, staring at Hopeless, and Hopeless knows that he will have questions. But even Ghastly’s eyes are sympathetic, and perhaps everything is going to be all right after all. Hopeless feels centuries of concealment peel away from their soul; it’s tangible, the feeling of relief and clarity that follows. Hopeless eats their soup, and answers questions intermittently, but the interrogation is over.</p><p>“Larrikin,” Hopeless says, when the meal is over and the others are preparing to rest. “Could you lend me some energy, please?”</p><p>Larrikin sighs heavily, but he bounces over and puts a hand on Hopeless’ shoulder. A feeling of life and vitality filters into Hopeless until they can stand without falling. Larrikin’s face falls a little, he yawns. But he’ll be alright, after he sleeps.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Talk to him,” Larrikin says.</p><p> </p><p>Erskine is sitting on the bank of a stream that curves around the roots of oaks and trees. His back is to their camp, he’s cupping a flame in his palms. Hopeless does not know how long he has sat here, watching the water move in the firelight. There’s a bowl next to him. Dexter had brought him his food when it had become apparent that he was not planning to return. He’s leaning sidewards against a tree, one arm around his knees. The light burnishes his silhouette yellow.</p><p>“Erskine,” Hopeless says, and sits beside him. He doesn’t look at them. Suddenly, Hopeless wants to rest their cheek on his shoulder. They want everything to just slow down.</p><p>“So, you can feel our fears? Does that mean you know what we’re afraid of, or that you feel exactly what we’re feeling?” Erskine’s jaw twitches with the last sentence.</p><p>“Both. But more often it’s the last one.”</p><p>“So when I came back, from that year away, you could feel …?”</p><p>“Yes,” Hopeless says, looking away. “I’m sorry Erskine.”</p><p>“Don’t … no.” Erskine laughs. It isn’t a happy sound. “I should be the one apologising.”</p><p>“You don’t need to apologise for hurting,” Hopeless says carefully. “It doesn’t work like that.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have had to feel that.”</p><p>“Neither should you. And I would <em>happily </em>feel worse, to have you back with me.” Hopeless says, words tight, patience gone.</p><p>Erskine bows his head, and Hopeless looks down at the stream, hands clasped. When Hopeless had been a child, they had escaped the strangulation of the castle and their family and the expectations of them as a daughter, and had gone down to the riverbank. The river had been too strong to play in, but they had loved the ducks and the cool air off the water and the darting of the fish. They had hiked up their skirts and paddled ankle deep in the water.</p><p>When Hopeless had become a soldier, waterways held different meaning. They were places of strategy, where armies could win or loose battles. Hopeless had learnt to swim through rough currents, how to shed armour when half-drowning. They had once swum across a watercourse filled with bodies and blood and dying horses, icy cold, with iron in their mouth. And yet, they loved water.</p><p>“Why didn’t you trust me?” Erskine asks.</p><p>“Everyone who had ever found out before you had used it against me, or hurt me,” Hopeless says. “It was never personal, me not telling you. It was simply what I did to survive.”</p><p>Erskine looks at them, eyes sharp. But he doesn’t push further, doesn’t point out the flaws in Hopeless’ explanation. His eyes flash, and Hopeless wonders why they find him so beautiful, even now.</p><p>“Gods, I’m tired,” he says, after a long pause.</p><p>“Yes,” Hopeless says. “Let’s go back. I’ll answer all the questions you have. I promise. Tomorrow.”</p><p>Erskine nods distractedly, but he helps Hopeless to their feet and Hopeless cannot feel any fear from him anymore, even if the age-old exhaustion in his face mirrors the way Hopeless feels. The two walk back to camp, and Erskine lets go of the fire in his hands. Soon the moon rises, and the night becomes like any other, and they sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was unbetaed, any feedback is welcome, as always.</p><p>Also, if anyone has the inexplicable desire to be the beta of a multi-chaptered Skulduggery Pleasant AU please let me know - just comment on one of my fics if you like.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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